8 Elle To Commune #2
Sacrifice is simple. One element is ended so that another can continue. Nature is made of sacrifice, and so is hell.
My eyes reflect in the pane of glass. Twin burning flames, like Mr. Pratterman’s in the dark dream. Douglas is right. I’m the monster as much as the Devil is. At least he has the excuse of it being in his nature.
The words I mumble devolve from coherent prayers to loose strings of words. Regretful, not powerful. The antithesis of sacrifice.
Souls of the fire in the coals of the damned and the freedom of the oil from the pits of the—
“You were doing so well, Elle.”
There are now four flames glowing in the window. Mine red, his white.
“I’m doing damn well,” I fire back. His presence has rekindled my rage. His power tastes of ash, while mine tastes of smoke. A sizzling spark. A firework ready to shoot out. Still wild, unlike the tamed spiral.
I feel him through the lighthouse. Heavy footsteps on my stairs. The edge of his coat against the grain of wood. Wind ripples my trunk.
Part of me is here staring down my soul’s debt collector. Another is that hunger, gathering to consume each soul on board. Sliding over rain-slicked planks to clutch the ankles of young men, old men, men returning home. They’re meat and suffering and life, and—above all—fear.
Fear is the most sustaining state. Before the body is consumed, that fear will pulse from the tip of the spiral’s tendrils down to its core beneath the lighthouse. Strengthening it. Preparing it for the feast. As it closes around the ship, the panic of the sailors comes into focus.
—Worst I’ve ever seen. Where is Edmund? I must tell him—
—Where is it? Come on, come on, come on—
—Fucking rain and fucking gale—
—I can’t. Not here. We’re so close. What? No. God. No. No—
Confusion. Terror. Prayers. Always the same with sailors. Yet, like licorice sliding down the gullet, the bitter tinge overtakes the brief sweetness of the spiral’s satisfaction. Ashen.
I force a cough back down when the tendrils connect to their victims and tighten around my own throat. I must ensure Liney’s safety, as these men scramble through their final moments.
“Center yourself,” Mr. Pratterman says. His hot breath tickles the back of my neck. “This is the pivotal moment. Let it guide you.”
I want to redirect the tendrils back to land, up the stairs to this lightroom, and around his neck. But it’d be like splashing water on the ocean or adding fire to a burning pyre. The fire and darkness that flow through my body are his.
“Promise you’ll take me,” I counter. I pause my chants despite every muscle screaming not to.
I turn around. We are nearly nose-to-nose.
His face flickers in the light of my eyes.
My red flames overpower his pale moonlight.
We both know I won’t waste a ship, but this display of will might grant me some small leverage.
It is the only time I’m between him and what he needs.
“That was always the deal, in the true meaning. If you take Liney, I’ll be useless to you. Let’s keep this simple. Between us.”
The tendrils squeeze harder on my neck, but I don’t budge.
He tilts his head. Good. He’d laugh at me if he weren’t seriously considering. He’s calculating the unholy mathematics to garner the most suffering.
I don’t care. He can have an eternity of misery from me. And he knows it.
“This is the edge I wanted, Eleanor,” he whispers, a smile creeping over his thin lips. The world is still, save for us. “This is the woman I saved.”
His eyes fall to my lips, then back to my gaze. A new contract. How many can say they’ve made two deals with the Devil?
“One caveat.”
My heart would soar if it weren’t on fire. He’ll agree. My extremities numb as my heartbeat pounds harder in my ears.
“I expect no less of you,” I say, barely containing the effort it takes to speak.
He laughs, soft instead of mocking. The laughter of a comrade. Someone aligned for now. The tendril loosens. Was he controlling it directly? I breathe in torturously slow to avoid seeming desperate for air.
“Finish this sacrifice. Caroline Forsyth will no longer be bound in this contract. But in addition…” His eyes flick up.
Considering his words, or enjoying my anticipation?
“It’s been too long without a more intimate sacrifice.
You will kill the next living nonkin you see before I visit next.
I will then consider all incurred debts between us paid.
Fail this, and your soul is forfeit immediately. No wagers, no begging, no more deals.”
I need to think. Consider the exact meaning of every word.
Wetness pools in my eyes as I fight a strangled cough.
Tears sizzle into steam before they can fall.
I’d kill to ensure Liney’s safety, and my own.
I learned that last year. One stranger, whoever I see first?
That’s nothing compared to the weight of what I’ve done.
But I’m not dealing with a man of honor no matter how his eyes soften and his blond-white brows turn up. The Devil doesn’t deal fairly.
Next living nonkin. Not Douglas, not Liney. Who? When?
“When will you visit again?”
There’s a crinkling at his eyes. Pride?
“Not before you have a chance to find someone,” he promises. “I have more business than this island, Elle. And cross my heart, I would like to see you succeed.”
Cross my heart. An oath to God. An oath to himself? Too much. The heat, the words, the weight of sailors crushed by my hands.
“You won’t return until I’ve found a living person, not of my relation, and have had time to prepare the sacrifice?” I say slowly.
The spiral is crushing the ship. Each snap of wood and creak of steel like pins coming out of hair. Satisfying. Freeing. Promising more.
Mr. Pratterman puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s as warm as I am.
“I’m helping you, Elle. I could consume you now for your negligence. Imagine the core of your being pulled into an agony your mortal nerves couldn’t begin to comprehend. Forever. Imagine Caroline, all alone—”
“Answer the question,” I interrupt. I won’t imagine her trapped. I swallow the bile in my throat until it is burning along with the rest of my senses.
“Yes.”
There are seconds left before the ship is engulfed in the spiral. The tendrils begin to collapse into the cave.
I hold his thin jaw in my hands. Each fingertip glows against his ash-white skin, making him appear flushed. Almost a man if not for the white lights that pierce through my red vision. Almost someone I could partner with. Ambition for ambition.
“I agree to this contract.”
One deal with the Devil makes a fool.
Two, a villain.
“Seal it,” he whispers.
His eyes burn brighter, taking control of the lighthouse’s power from me until all I see is white. I can’t feel the thrashing tendrils or the wailing men. Only him.
My human heart strains at its limits, my hands lead his face to mine, my lips connect to his once more.
Now I’m thoroughly damned.